


Memoirs of Henry Gordon: The Law of Surprise

by Crocmon



Series: Memoirs of Henry Gordon, Savior of the Star [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:42:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29620791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crocmon/pseuds/Crocmon
Summary: Henry Gordon's memoirs follow a chance expedition to Bardam's Mettle with X'rhun Tia, in the wake of his adventures in Norvrandt. Seeking a new source of inspiration for the mentor, both Red Mages journey to the Steppe to find a place to be born anew in a culture that had served so much of a catalyst for the Warrior of Light's growth. What they discover is a bit more than they bargained for, as a stray remark tempts Fate in ways they would neither anticipate nor regret.
Relationships: Sadu Dotharl/Warrior of Light
Series: Memoirs of Henry Gordon, Savior of the Star [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915624





	1. Chapter 1

> _In previous accounts, Henry Gordon often refers to things without any rhyme or reason. Non sequiturs, rambling, dramatic oversimplification, all of these are the norm for his somewhat inane, if not comical, memoirs. As they swerve about with no concern for the poor reader who eventually will come to own a copy, it falls onto an editor (such as myself) or scribe to make it somewhat presentable. What you have is a (mostly) accurate recreation of his dictations, and perhaps a lens into the life he led._
> 
> _Of note, this goes into the origin story of Maralla “Voidscale” Gordon, a very unique child who was born and raised among the Dotharl people, without much notice to the Warrior of Light. Cultures across the Star hold true to certain laws, one of which being one that I have had trouble verifying the source of pertains uniquely to Maralla “Voidscale” Gordon._
> 
> \- Lynell Martin, Immortal Flames Ambassador and former Ishgardian Inquisitor

Many a time I’ve said in this memoir that my life would cascade into uncontrollable madness. However, such a case was never more true than after my many storied adventures, when a choice inquiry by an aging friend who took the Red as a personal lifestyle choice. While X’rhun Tia and I would grow fairly close while I wore the crimson cloth of the Red Mage, it took one particular adventure to the Steppe to change our relationship from “brothers in arms” to “close friends.” Hell, I would call him a brother at this point. By certain legalities, we are.

The trial of Bardam’s Mettle was something he insisted caused a revolution in how I carried myself, and so he wished to experience it himself. He wanted one of the Yol birds, and he wanted an affirmation of his skills as a warrior as well as a chance to introduce the Red to a culture he had only heard about in stories.

I will forever ask where he got the notion that I’d improved at all, considering I simply grew better at holding my “Defender of Eorzea” persona for extended periods of time.

> _As one undoubtedly would know at this point, Henry Gordon was by far his own worst critic. After his own completion of the Bardam’s Mettle he genuinely expressed himself as a new man, even in his less than savory moments._

I had considered him a hard man to fool, for some time, but after he insisted I had changed I concluded that I’d successfully fooled him. Just as well, honestly, for our adventure would reveal to me one of the few things I can say was a crowning achievement: a contribution to Eorzean history that I have not stained with my bitter alcoholism and the act of self-preservation.

_In his memoirs, he insists several times that all his heroic acts were done with the idea of saving his own hide. The words that came out of his mouth have been somewhat embellished by bards the world over, but if he were putting on an act during some of his speeches it may stand to reason that he may very well have convinced himself of an act: the act of a cowardly, ‘punk kid from Jersey.’ I believe he carried to his death the notion that he was not at all worthy of praise, short of that which he accepts after this line._

The only contributions and compliments those contributions earned me that I ever accepted are those of the Steppe, and its people. After taking the title of Khagan during the Liberation of Doma, I wore a layer of pride that I had not felt before. It added a layer of polish to my _dramatis personae_ , as it were, and allowed me to puff my chest out just that much further to fool even the various Primals and Ascians I fought that I was not at all terrified by their very presence.

As X’ruhn and I made our way to the Steppe, we chanced across a caravan moving from the Doman Enclave to the Steppes, and I recognized the colors on their garments and a flag they carried that they were the Dotharl.

“Ah! Khagan! Come to sharpen us upon your finest whetstone?” The strapping lass said, and while I could hardly recognize her I would later learn she was the one who was with child when I earned my title.

“No, not quite, just came here to show my buddy,” I indicated X’ruhn with my right hand, “The Way of the Steppe. He wishes to become a Warrior of the Steppe, and learn from the peoples here.”

“My,” She crossed one arm across her chest and rested her chin between her finger and thumb, “He certainly is _well-aged,_ ” She had a devilish smirk, “If Bardam’s Mettle does not obliterate him I would love to test his mettle myself.”

Now, you may now be wondering why she had just called him old. At this point, X’ruhn Tia was getting on in years. Despite Miqo’te managing to look absolutely dashing well into their forties, it was apparent in cases such as F'lhaminn that the pains of their aging were mostly invisible. A softening of attitudes, a slowing of the mind, a relaxation of their reflexes, but their stunning looks would last longer than they would. So X’ruhn Tia in a dashing crimson garb with a rapier at his hip very much caught the eyes of the Dotharl women.

You may think I am exaggerating, but they were very eager to guess how he would do in Bardam’s Mettle, and they were enamored with the idea of him taking his very own Yol. In fact, they bet that his Yol would have far grander plumage than mine. My Yol, Sturgill, would have been very offended had it been around. Thankfully, it was not. Probably off doing whatever it is Yol do while their owner is off saving the world. After roughly an hour of discussing the intricacies of the Red, the women finally released their hold on X’ruhn.

“And khagan!” One shouted as we made our way, “When you are done, come home to the Dotharl camp! It is where you left it. Sadu wishes to see you.”

“Of course!” I said, not thinking at all of the words used to convey such a statement to us. Something scratched at the back of my mind, but I had to see my friend to the end of the Mettle! He would be like me, a proper Warrior of the Steppe, born again in the trials of Bardam’s Mettle. As we made our way across the rolling hills, X’ruhn and I shared an odd quip of disourse. One, however, stuck out with me as we saw a strange flying beast soar overhead.

“Henry,” X’ruhn said, his softening voice still the same charming tone it always had, “I think you and I both know that age is not doing me any favors,”

“Nonsense, man,” I assured him, “Those women would be eager to take you in. They may not bury you in the way you’d like, but you are spry enough to teach them things they would never have thought of. And take a few lessons yourself,” I winked like the cad I thought I was. In fact, we were both fairly eligible bachelors on something of a hunting expedition. Had I half a mind, I would have been faking an accent from home, and wearing some ridiculous hat and fake beard.

“Perhaps,” He caved, “Perhaps I have a few more good years in me, yet. But, as the Warrior of Light, you set one Hell of an example for the Red. The art comes close to dying, with just us three, but I have to ask, have you ever considered settling down?”

“With how often things go to shit? I couldn’t do it if I wanted to,” I laughed, my youth showing in my brazen disregard for ‘polite’ language, “If it isn’t one world-ending crisis, it’s another.”

“But someday, my friend, you’ll have to decorate mannequins with your old armor and weapons, and in so doing leave a legacy.”

“Perhaps,” I said, mocking his tone earlier. He gave two short laughs, rolling his eyes and patting my shoulder as we rode our horse-birds, “Though, I gotta admit, the mood strikes me.”

“Oh? Of quitting?”

“I think of it too much,” I said, and he narrowed his gaze at me for a moment, sizing me up. Truthfully, I had just pulled the curtain back. Most laugh it off like a joke, but X’ruhn seemed to have finally understood my meaning. He widened his eyes, leaning away from me for a moment as a smile started to form, faded, and a look of pleasant comprehension graced his face.

“I see,” He nodded slowly, “Henry, I believe I understand you much better, now.”

“Oh?” I asked, always somewhat terrified when somebody says something to that end. There have been few who fully understand who and what I was, and fewer who have the audacity (or perhaps confidence? I could never tell the difference) to call me on it. X’ruhn though, gave me a wise smile that dried and became wry, just like his tone.

“For a while, I thought your secret was some special magical talent, or the way your aether was laced, you were just _built_ differently than I. The Twelve having just decided you would be born a hero, but put you in a world you could not do any heroics in by mistake. But no, I see it now.”

Needless to say, I was intrigued. His curled smile held me by the throat, as I was expecting him to break out laughing at the cowardice I held.

“But no, I see it now. You are just _you._ ” I must have made a face, for his explosive laughter and the loud smack of my right shoulder that turned into a hug could not have spawned in void, “You hold so very tightly to the idea that, at the end of everything, you will always be yourself. Whether we call you Warrior of Light, or Khagan, or Warrior of Darkness as the folks in Norvrandt called you, _you will still hold fast to yourself._ You ground yourself, and this guides you.”

I had never thought of it that way, and truth be told never would think of it that way again.

> _Henry Gordon would never again mention this conversation, or any like it, ever again. Though I can only imagine his wife would give him a similar calling out, she is not willing to weigh in on his memoirs in... The capacity that I have taken it upon myself to do._

The fact that my utter terror at reality-warping monstrosities, mundane horrors, Garlean and Allagan robots, and multidimensional travels, was what gave me the power I had was such an elegant explanation that it almost made me accept that I could stop putting on a brave face. But, everyone involved in my life knows how well that lesson stuck out. If I ever stopped wearing my ‘Defender of Eorzea’ mask, the world may very well have completely fallen apart. Even now, in my old age, I find I must wear it at dinner parties or people will think I’ve gone soft and finally have a knife driven between my ribs.

> _Those who have considered assassinating Henry at Ishgardian parties were swiftly dealt with. What can I say? He was lucky enough to unwittingly have a former Ishgardian Inquisitor in his employ._

“Perhaps,” he finally said, after a long moment was held between us and we found our entryway to Bardam’s Mettle proper, “I can do the same, and regain my place as your mentor,”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Gordon and X'rhun Tia enter the infamous Bardam's Mettle, and the pair find themselves discussing the finer merits of the trial. As they reach its finale, the Crimson Duelist is struck with the awe of the place, and Henry Gordon feels a familiar sensation within him.

The Bardam’s Mettle was, by my initial estimate, the bog-standard. We fought a handful of beasts, and I made sure it was X’ruhn who would be the leading force. After all, it was _his_ birth-through-deed. He was the one who would become “X’ruhn Tia, of the Steppe,” and not I. I was already Khagan. I had no need to be baptised by the wrath of a Yol, or ensnared by a golem, or crushed by a meteor.

That honor distinctly fell onto him, and I was content to be a far more supporting role.

“I believe,” he said, a song in his laughter, “I am getting the hang of this! No wonder the Steppe’s tribes are so able-bodied, their lives are practice for the combat that is life. They sharpen themselves on one another, hoping to be ready for whatever may come tomorrow!”

“Yea,” I shouted back, side-stepping a charging beast and driving my foil true, “They truly are! They wish to be the spears on the wall, the fire in the heart, the blood flowing in a warrior’s veins!”

“And I would join them, to feel mine pumping once more!” He shouted, and after a deft dodge of a rolling boulder, we found ourselves at the cave. The glorious artwork always gives me pause, and it forces me to stop even now to consider how beautiful it is. While the alleged origin story of my very own soul lends itself to the possibility, I very well felt as if I, by partaking in the challenge of Bardam’s Mettle, painted it myself. The lifeforce I held within me illuminated the ink, or guided the hands of the artists, or perhaps I was the artist, in a past life long ago? Perhaps I was once a member of the tribes, and my run through the Mettle was merely an awakening? The man who found himself home, once more, but had to prove to his family that despite his new face he was the same person?

These are questions for someone far more concerned with the poetics of my life. Perhaps those questions I felt to ask were asked solely to bait a bard into singing, or thinking too hard at how evocative such thoughts were? My partner in this hunt blasted his fashioned whistle, and since that moment I have lost the reasoning as to my asking them, but ere long the Yol that had chosen X’ruhn Tia was upon us. It screeched, beating its wings like war-drums. X’ruhn Tia looked up, his eyes searching its plumage, finding its eyes, and his shoulders dropped in sync with his jaw.

“Henry,” he gasped, “This is-”

“A rebirth? Of course! Now, don’t slacken your stance yet!”

My words felt harsh, harsher than I intended. A will that might not have entirely been that of Henry Gordon beckoned them from me: the will of a weary warrior who once thought he had no fight left to fight. I was that person, and that person was me. Though the urges originated from someone not myself, I was the one who controlled them. I rode them, and used the urges as fitting for a mentor. I had the vague feeling of someone who was watching a game of their own design being played by a master. As if I’d created this, and now a star player was performing exclusively for my benefit.

The bird swooped in, and X’ruhn swung his foil across his view. The blade sang, runes glowing along its edge and a blast of magic at his side. In a display I hope I never am on the wrong end of, he spun the weapon in his palm and twirled on one foot before kicking a raised foot out. He began to dance, slowly at first, as if he were searching for a tempo.

> _This is uncharacteristically descriptive of Henry, perhaps as a side-effect of his age, it spoke of a far more vivid recollection than normal. In some of his other dictations, he insists he spoke like he did in his retirement as a youthful hero, and vice-versa, but when his descriptions become images like this, I believe it is his Echo showing him things his body and mind had almost forgotten, so that he may hold the memories to his chest. Were it that we would all be so lucky._

“My word, Henry, I-”

“Don’t let the emotions get the better of you!” I barked, “You are X’ruhn Tia! This is a place of power, raw and unfiltered. Let it flow through you, let the Yol whose aether matched yours see that you are in charge!”

The Crimson Duelist held his hands together, blade-tip pointing toward the ground, and he strafed to the side as the Yol screeched and considered his stance. He released one hand, tracing a sigil in the air and muttering a verbal component. The Yol saw a weakness, and charged. I had considered him a goner, for only a moment, when he purposefully dropped the spell and pirouetted forward. He watched the Yol skid along the ground, and as it struggled to realign with X’ruhn Tia he attempted his spell again. This time, the Jolt II manifested. It was followed up by an artful Impact, a beautiful rose of Red Mana exploding its petals about in a show of power that brought a tear to my eye.

“See me, _Victoriam!_ See my Crimson, know me!” X’ruhn shouted with daring hope, a shimmering jewel despite the age it held. The Miqo’te Seeker of the Sun lunged forward, his rapier seeking the soft spots of the Yol. He jabbed, he parried, he traced a sigil in the air with his swings, and he leaped backward with a finesse that I had never imagined could look as good as it did. In fact, I hope that I am ever able to ignite in others the passion his combat ignited in me. Each swing of his weapon, each cast spell, it all was a dissertation in the truth and passion in his heart. He would be a Warrior of the Steppe, and it would be the duty of his Yol to accept that.

The Yol screamed, its wings stretched wide, a warrior’s howl filling the air and almost making me drop my weapon for its ferocity. Despite my occasional casting of Vercure, X’ruhn Tia had this fight almost entirely under control. He readied a Verholy, into a Scorch, then resumed a flurry of spells. He engaged Manafication, cast Embolden upon himself, and in a dazzling display he danced around the massive bird of prey like it was always seeking to dance with him exclusively.

Any killing blows were stopped just short: this was a communication, a discussion, an argument. X’ruhn Tia claimed this bird, and he would prove that of the two _he_ was in charge. He would care for its life, but ultimately he was the leader in the relationship. One final Displacement, followed by a Verflare, and the raising of his weapon to drop Scorch.

The Yol dropped. Not dead, but exhausted. It gave a weak cry, a long note held as if it were sighing contentedly. The man I would call my friend before this adventure was through fell to his knees, gasping, his exhaustion down to his very aether. As he stumbled toward the Yol, he and it both lay for a long time.

“Henry,” he said, beckoning me closer, “Thank you.”

“No,” I felt the compulsion to say, “Thank _you._ That was magnificent, for a show like that, I don’t know I can ever repay you.”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” X’ruhn Tia laughed, “We’ll both be surprised.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the test of Bardam's Mettle, Henry and X'rhun Tia rest their weary feat and talk by a campfire. They trade idle fancies and speak words that had far more impact than they would ever anticipate.

As is customary, Oronir and the various tribes wished to see X’ruhn Tia personally. The Nadaam was not in any reasonable amount of time, so there were no ridiculous trials for him to go through. However, Magnai Oronir did find it the perfect opportunity to be himself.

“A new Warrior of the Steppe? An _outsider_ no less, endorsed by our Khagan? Naturally, I must assess him. Word has already spread: scouts saw you _following his trail._ Did you intervene with his trial, Khagan? You may be Khagan, but you still do not know our customs. Any overabundance of aid will nullify his trial, and cast him in exile.”

“Actually, I did not. Beyond shouting encouraging words and making sure he was in fighting shape before engaging the Yol proper, I did nothing for him.”

“I see,” Magnai said, looking down his nose at the Miqo’te man before him, “And even at his age he claimed a Yol. Impressive.”

“Far more impressive you can tell my age,” X’ruhn Tia said with boldness, which caused Magnai’s attendants to stiffen. He’d spoken out of turn.

“As an _outsider_ I will grant you leave for that outburst,” Magnai said, “Further interruptions of the conversation between myself and the Khagan will be met with more stern reprimands.”

Of course, I knew enough to understand that this was Magnai posturing to feel like the biggest man in the room. While he had height on myself and X’ruhn, he had no answer for either of our strengths.

“Then treat it as a comment from myself,” I insisted, “After all we _are_ talking about him with him in the room. Is that not rude in itself?”

Magnai lowered his gaze, meeting my eyes. He squinted, pursing his lips for a moment. He leaned his head to the side, shrugging with closed eyes before resuming his down-the-nose staredown.

“I suppose you are right, it is fairly rude of me to do such a thing, especially when the Khagan points it out. You are more coy than you admit, Khagan.”

Truthfully I had no idea what I had done. This was simply stating facts, but in my dealings with megalomaniacs and those who get off on power, it’s best to let them pay compliments and nod in thanks. In cases such as this one, it is equal parts stroking of their massive ego and letting them take a graceful out. They appreciate both, though most rarely understand one part or the other. Magnai complimenting me indicated he knew that I would call him out further if it continued, and X’ruhn straightened his stance a little more. The conversation went on for an hour, mostly the Oronir asking (through Magnai, of course) about X’ruhn’s past. The Crimson Duelist had quite the stories to tell, and if I had any rightful measure of it he would have no shortage of companions if he so wished to settle down, as our discussions had drifted toward earlier in this journey we were on.

As night fell, we sat around a campfire in the giant floating bowl that served as the Oronir encampment, and he and I sat in its warmth for some time. I stoked the flames idly with some minor spell I picked up, designed to make a mage capable of starting a fire all their own, and my companion chuckled as he considered the flames.

“You know of Bozja, Henry?” X’ruhn asked, leaning against an Oronir woman who had been absolutely smitten with him for the better part of two hours. She was fast asleep, content to hold the newest Warrior of the Steppe in her arms and doze.

“Of course,” I said, “What nation haven’t I been to these days?”

“When the Yol and I were exhausted, battered and recovering, I said we would think of something, a way we could repay one another. And in Bozja, they have an old superstition I could not help but think of. In fact, this superstition has roots in Allagan culture, from what I know.”

“Oh? I never figured you for an Allagan scholar,” I ribbed, feeling somewhat coy at the fact that he had basically been born again literally once he took flight with his very own Yol. In something of an ironic turn of events, the bird was just as old - if not older - than he was. A perfect match: two aging warriors seeking rebirth in the combat they would both ride into, together. Neither looked or acted very old after that; in fact, I wager they were both rejuvenated in the fires of their beautiful combat.

“I know a few things,” He half-smiled, a single exhalation of air leaving his nose in what equated to a laugh, “But this tradition springs up in all sorts of folklore, probably from the mixing of cultures since its creation long, long ago.”

“So it’s an old superstition of what, crossing swords over a fire? Shaking hands with slit palms, so we may form a covenant as brothers?” I joked, but these were all things I vaguely recall finding in my travels. Old rites, things passed on through word of mouth and the importance they carried alone. How little did I know at the time.

“No, it is an old law. They say that a debtor would offer that which he does not expect to find at home to the one who he is indebted to. I insist I should do it to you, but I scarcely have a home these days. While I might find something at an inn, I would not exactly call that home, so it would not be exactly fair.” He pointed to me, exposing his palm to the starry night sky with the fire illuminating a sly grin, “Plus, _you_ insisted that you’re the one indebted to me, did you not?”

“That I did, that I did,” I could not help but laugh, “Is that the deal you want to strike?”

“Aye,” He said, “An old soul calling on an old superstition. I ask that you pay me in that which you find at home, but do not expect to find.”

> _In my personal research on the subject, I found that the superstition did in fact have origins in Allagan folklore. Bozja was the most explicit descendant of Allag, and so it had a more direct connection. However, as people migrate, so too, do their fantasies. The “Law of Surprise” [“On the topic of Allagan Folklore, Volume 3” by G’raha Tia] is in fact a powerfully charged concept. Upon an analysis by Urianger Augurelt in his own research [“Origins of Heroes, Volume 4: Prophecies and Contracts”], it has been discovered to actually be a phenomenon explained only by the whim of the Star itself. It would seem that the Star has a thing for deals, and binds contracts such as this in ways few are ever aware of._

“For allowing me to be a spectator in the rebirth of the Crimson Duelist? I shall be happy to oblige you.”

We had no idea what we had just done, and felt we were simply saying silly words. We were both men who were seeking a time of peace, simplicity, and wanted to leave a lasting legacy. That much we had decided together, despite not ever verbally coming to that agreement. His profession would always seem him to be a wandering swordsman, plying the Red to any who had the heart to wield it, I would eventually need to stop and rest, and we both knew it. So, we spoke as if we were already in the annals of history, and we laughed until we could not laugh anymore. We retired to sleeping bags by the fire, and rested the night away content to dream of the stories the world would tell of us.

The following morning, we were set for the Dotharl camp. X’ruhn was to introduce himself to the tribes all day, and I was to visit an old flame. While we were strictly casual when we last met, two warriors engaging one another in more fields than that of battle, I would find we were fated to be much more than a passing fling.

“Khagan!” many of the Dotharl shouted, including several children. As usual, the women seemed far more smitten with the Seeker of the Sun than with me, but in truth? I was more than content with that. I had my eyes set for, at most, one fantastic evening with a white-haired beauty, who would likely demand I fight her to affirm my position as Khagan, or something to that effect. But, my sword-arm tightened instinctively as I saw her head poke out from her yurt. She seemed more matronly in her figure, and there was something of an unfamiliar glow about her. She seemed to hold something in her arms, and beckoned me over with that commanding voice of hers.

“Khagan, oh _Khagan,_ ” she sang, making eye contact with me, “Come, meet the newest addition to the Dotharl tribe! I have prevented anyone from seeing who she is to be, specifically for the honor of your blessing. Surely, a mighty warrior as yourself being the first to see her face would bless her with great strength!”

I approached, my arm tightening. All eyes were locked on me, and I even heard X’ruhn Tia gasp. His footsteps followed after, but he kept a safe distance. I had no idea at the time, but Sadu glared daggers at him and that kept him away enough to avoid ruining the moment.

In truth, as the swaddling was moved to expose the babe’s face, I saw a strange skin tone. The child was beautiful, and I felt my paternal instincts kick in instantly, but what I initially thought was my general longing to ensure the world I was in would be a safe place for all that would come after me, was in fact _far_ more visceral than that.

“Sadu,” I asked, my voice quaking as the coin dropped.

“Yes, _my khagan_?” She looked to me, and I looked to her as I instinctively offered my right index finger to the baby for it to grab, as one does to children.

“Does the baby have… _My eyes_?” The coin was dropping, slowly, and my soul must have left my body in more ways than emotionally, as Sadu produced the evil grin that saw her and I bed one another so long ago.

“As is custom, the parents must duel to name their child,”

“ _Their child?!_ ” I exclaimed, to which the baby became startled, and I immediately felt like an absolute buffoon as it began to cry. I tried to offer her consolation, but with my gloves on and my utter shock I could do little more than poke her rosy cheeks and stare at those purple eyes, the same eyes I discovered I had after coming to Eorzea. The same eyes that were only that color due to a cheap trick of Hydaelyn’s magic, which merged the colored contacts I wore for that blasted Ren-Faire in New Jersey with my actual eyes, and I had never considered that I had the ability to give this trait to a child. I was shocked to see enough of myself scared and confused in this baby that I did not feel any emotion at all when Sadu laughed in my face, then held the child on her shoulder, which surprised it enough to calm it down.

“Prepare yourself, _Khagan_ , your daughter only resembles those who have not yet died. So, she will be a new soul, or perhaps is one we do not remember? Either way, we must name her! I will take no poor display of prowess from you!”

I heard X’ruhn laughing, cackling even, and turned to him with what I imagine was pure confusion and panic. He slapped his knee, his ears twitching about with mirth. Had I the mind, I would have torn his ears off, but I was too frozen with the shock that _I was a parent._

> _Believe me when I say that nary a soul in Eorzea responded any differently. So terrified of the concept were the Scions, that many of them did not know whether to congratulate Henry or fortify their homes from a child of Sadu’s potentially being left to his care. Tataru was of particular anxieties, as she would be the one that would have to fund 'baby-proofing' a house. Henry's wife, however, would encourage him to take up trades so that he could clean up after his potential hellion.  
> _

“Well then, Henry, you know our arrangement! She will take up the Red, but only when she is old enough to do so. Just don’t be cross with me if she learns faster than you!”

“I hope she learns faster,” I stammered, trying to regain my composure.

Truthfully, she would learn far faster than me. It did not take long before I was spirited away from my impromptu family. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn needed to have the world saved from some disaster or another, and I was forced to reprise my role as the Warrior of Light for the umpteenth time.

Though, as I sit down to have these memoirs penned, I come to recognize that X’ruhn and I both won that day. Had we only known what we were doing when we made that silly deal, we might have anticipated the possibility that I would have had a child waiting for me. Only after retirement and analyzing the life and times of not only myself, but many of my other Scion companions, did I realize the gravity of that which we created. We invited the Star to make its own gambit in both our lives, for what? A chance at a lasting legacy? I imagine the idea was that X’ruhn would find himself a woman waiting for him, rather than an heir to the Red. Another spellsword, ready to dish out justice to those who deserve a swift kick in the arse.

Sadu thoroughly trounced me that day. X’ruhn would laugh hysterically, and he explained the reasoning to Sadu, and the terms of the agreement he and I made. Sadu howled, scolding me for making such a foolish bet, but she understood the fact that I would unfortunately be largely absent from my daughter’s life. All the same, it would seem, for I would be able to see her every Nadaam. I watched her leap through the years, and as I got older she seemed to reach higher and higher. Even now, as I have this memoir dictated, she has likely saved the world at least twice.

Maralla “Voidscale” Gordon.

> _She earned the name from her violet eyes, which would take on a glow of whatever element she was casting. A powerfully unique showing of her arcane might, Henry was always rather fond of the trait. Fear not, dear reader, his other children were also given equal attention and care, though their proximity to him for their youth made them notably less eager to chase glory as their half-sister._

The name rolls from the tongue, and while her circumstances may not have been ideal, I am happy that she was born. Her being around to take up the Warrior of Light mantle from me, when I retired (not that I would wish such a thing on anyone, but unfortunately for all of us such heroes must exist), was a boon. And while Sadu raised her to be rather hot-headed, she has since grown into a fine Red Mage and a finer scholar, who last I heard is exploring the world with her own generation of Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

Once she could regularly trounce X’ruhn Tia, he considered his oath fulfilled between us. He and I shared drinks like the old gentlemen we had aged into, and laughed at old times. Where I was starting to slow, he had hit his limits. White mana has its uses, but we both knew his days would end far sooner than mine. Last I saw him, he and his Yol were settling into the Steppe. Rumor has it that one day the Crimson Duelist took to the skies on his bird, chasing the horizon once more, and I hope he may wander to his heart’s content.

I don’t have nearly the wild ambitions of disappearing into the horizon, as I am quite content with my retirement, but when I’m not reminiscing about all the times I clenched my bowels in terror at eldritch (and mundane) horrors, I do sometimes imagine what it would be like to be a weary wanderer, tempting fate with idle words once more.


End file.
